


Hopeful Romantics

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, Mombasa, Romancing The Stone, i'm just saying this is the most perfect fusion ever trust me, jungle adventures, okay so we're doing this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8644519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: Bestselling author Lila Bordeaux has a secret — and it isn’t that her name is actually Arthur.  No: the world’s most beloved romance novelist doesn’t believe in epic adventures, ridiculous coincidences, unbelievable fantasy, or love at first sight. And he definitely doesn’t believe that dreams come true. You might call him the Jewel of Denial.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Look, there are three things you need to know:
> 
> 1) this is ridiculous and prolly won't make any sense but let's all just roll with it ok  
> 2) If you don't know the film, that's okay, it doesn't matter. All you need to understand is that _Romancing the PASIV_ is an absolutely perfect crossover. Arthur and Eames are perfect for this movie, lol.  
>  3) Just listen to this morsel of perfection over and over as you come along with me on this dumb journey and everything will be fine  
> [That's it, just kick back and let Alan Silvestri rock you like it's 1984](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhRtPgVgcaQ)

 

 

> Dear Arthur,
> 
> Would you be a dear and look after this little package for me? You can return it to me when we see each other at sweet Aunt May’s on the 28th. I was just thinking the other day about that time you and James got drunk on her front porch swing and he accidentally fell off the side into the rosebushes. I haven’t seen you that excited about anything since the 49-ers won the Super Bowl.
> 
> Do pick up the phone and let me know how you are? It’s been ages!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Mal

 

Arthur scowls, digs into his lobster crostini, and tries not to accidentally make eye contact with the guy with the toupee ogling him from across the bar. Next to him, Ariadne is shooting him unimpressed looks over her quail salad. 

"Have you actually been on a date since you filed your last manuscript with me?" she says, pointedly not acknowledging the starer. "I'm not saying you have to go out with Mr. Pick-Up-Artist over there, but honestly, Arthur, I can't remember the last time you mentioned doing anything social with someone other than me or your editor."

"Well," Arthur tries. "Writing keeps me busy, and it's hard to explain to people what I do for a living."

"Really?" Ariadne snorts. "Just tell people you're a writer. Half the residents of Manhattan are writers or starving artists. And the other half are too rich to care how you make your money."

"You say that," Arthur protests, "but you know how romance writers get stigmatized. Let alone a male romance writer writing under a female pseudonym. People look at you differently after you tell them."

"Arthur, people are going to look at you differently anyway," Ariadne says. She took a mouthful of salad and waved her fork in emphasis as she spoke. "Hell, people look at  _me_ differently when I tell them I'm Lila Bordeau's agent."

"Do you really tell them that?" Arthur asks, oddly pleased.

Ariadne grins at him. "Are you kidding? Do I tell them I'm the agent who discovered the shy little New Orleans debutante and plucked her out of obscurity and into the Kroger paperback section? You bet I do."

"What do they say?"

Her grin goes lopsided. "They always ask who you really are, of course. But naturally your secret is safe with me."

She picks up one of the rolled wafers that came with her tea and sticks it in her mouth like a cigar. 

"Now look here, shee," she says in an exaggerated Edward G. Robinson accent. "We've gotta good thing going here, shweetheart, know what I mean? Shtick with me, baby, and you're gonna be a shtar."

He smiles "You've never steered me wrong yet." It's true. When Arthur was shopping around his first manuscripts, long before the madness of hitting number one on both the NYT  _and_ USA Today lists, he'd gotten plenty of interest from agents for his first romance novels—the ones he submitted under Lila Bordeaux's pseudonym, of course.

Only one of them, a hungry young agent with only a few titles and even fewer sales to her name, had been interested in his  _other_ novel, _Mimosa Springs_ , a poignant, personal literary study of two men falling in love in a small Southern town. 

He'd taken a chance, come clean to her about his identity, and the two of them had shot up the ranks of New York publishing together. 

Since then, he's published 11 novels, all of them under the name Lila Bordeaux, all of them instant bestsellers. After diligent work, Ariadne had found a publisher for _Mimosa Springs_ , an editor willing to take a chance on first-time novelist Arthur Lake. It languished on shelves, sold a few hundred copies, and was quietly nominated for a Lambda award on its way into obscurity. 

Ariadne still has it on her office bookshelf, though, and proudly listed it among her prominent sales. He loves her for that. 

"Speaking of steering you wrong," she says, munching on her cigar-biscuit, "When is Arthur Lake going to give me a new novel?"

He sits back and gazes at her. They're dining in one of the fancy Bowery restaurants that agents like to bring their clients to for lunch; but Ariadne, being Ariadne, likes the bar counter. She's kicking her sneakers idly against the bar stool, looking for all the world like a broke college student instead of a member of one of the more prestigious literary agencies in the city. Arthur knows that were it not for his other more lucrative genre writing, she couldn't afford to stay interested in his failed literary career. He suspects her interest is just a polite courtesy; it's abundantly clear there's not an audience for another run-of-the-mill queer literary author, at least not this one.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't think I really have time, what with the new series coming out."

" _Bahama Bride_ ," she says, smirking. "Have you ever even been to the Bahamas?"

"You know I don't even have a passport." He winces.

"Exactly my point. You treat leaving midtown like it's a day trip. You should actually get out and go to some of these places you write about."

"That's what Google Street View is for," Arthur protests.

"No, that's what  _vacation_ is for." Ariadne narrows her gaze at him. "What about your sister?"

"Mal?"

"Yeah, she's always traveling for research. Why not visit her?"

"I don't know," Arthur says. "She's been a bit hard to reach lately. And she just sent me this weird package." He gestures to the briefcase he carried in with him. 

"Something in the briefcase?"

"No, she  _sent_ me the briefcase." Arthur sets it on the bar counter between them. It's made of a strange metal, a harder surface than he's used to. "It's locked but she didn't send me the combination."

"Why?" Ariadne squints at it. 

Arthur shrugs. "I dunno. She sent me an odd letter with it, too. Something about visiting Aunt May with our friend James." He looks at Ariadne, suddenly aware how odd it all sounds. "But we don't have an Aunt May, and we don't know anybody named James."

Ariadne frowns. "Maybe you should call her, make sure she's okay."

Arthur doesn't disagree. He pulls out his phone. "Actually, she called me about twenty minutes ago," he says, surprised. "She must have phoned while I was on the train."

He rings her back. She answers on the first ring. "Hey, Mal?"

"Arthur," she says, and instantly Arthur's flesh prickles. "Arthur, thank god."

"Mal? Are you okay?"

Mal's voice is wrecked and hoarse, like she's been crying. "Arthur, it's okay, I'm okay. I'm fine. But I've been—I've run into some trouble and I desperately need your help."

"Trouble," Arthur says. "Do you need me to wire you some money?"

"No, Arthur, please, it's nothing like that. I need you to listen closely." Arthur grabs a bar napkin and fumbles for a pen. Ariadne watches him in shock. "Did you get a package in the mail from me this morning?"

"Yes," Arthur says. "Yes, I've got it now."

"Oh, thank goodness. Arthur. That package — I need you to bring it to Fort Jesus in Mombasa. Can you do that for me?"

"Mombasa," Arthur echoes. "Mombasa,  _Kenya_?"

"Yes, darling, Mombasa, Kenya."

"I—I can't go to Kenya," Arthur says blankly. "I don't have a passport. I haven't even been vaccinated—"

"Arthur,  _please_ ," and now Mal sobs in a way that twists his gut. "Just bring the package to Mombasa. Call me as soon as you arrive. And  _hurry_."

She's barely gotten the last word out when the phone cuts off with a loud scuffle, as though it's been wrenched out of her hand.

Arthur stares at the phone, and then at Ariadne.

"Okay, wow," she says.

"I have to get to Kenya," says Arthur, mind racing. He'll have to pack, and get someone to feed Marvin while he's away, and get a passport, and—

"How long does it take to get vaccinated?" he asks.

"Oh my god, Arthur," Ariadne says. "You can't do this! You're not prepared for this at all! Do you even have travel clothes?"

"All of my clothes are suitable for travel," replies Arthur distantly.

"Not to  _Kenya_ , Arthur!"

"I've got to go, Mal needs me. Is it possible to get a temporary passport?"

"No!" says Ariadne. "You can't just jet over to Kenya without a passport, it's illegal!"

"I don't have a choice!" Arthur hisses. "And you might want to lower your voice!"

"I'm just saying," Ariadne whispers fiercely, "You're gonna need some help. You're just lucky I know a guy."

"A guy?"

"A boyfriend kind of guy," says Ariadne. "He owns his own airline."

"Saito?" Arthur's always known Ariadne's boyfriend was rich, but— "He owns an airline?"

Ariadne nods. "And he's kind of cool with the—" she looks around and handwaves significantly. "You know."

"The passport situation," Arthur says.

"Pack your bags, Arthur Lake," says Ariadne. "Adventure has found you."

 

********

 

Ariadne's boyfriend, Saito, is an international energy mogul—that is, he owns one of the largest energy conglomerates in the world. Arthur hadn't really understood what that meant until Saito steepled his fingers and said, "of course, it's not a problem at all," and made plans to whisk Arthur away on a private jet to Kenya, no questions asked. 

"He must really like you," Arthur tells Ariadne dazedly when he stops by to drop off his detailed instructions for feeding and cleaning and water-changing and temperature-regulating Marvin.

Ariadne smirks. "Oh, he does."

By the time Arthur makes it to Mombasa, he is frantic with anxiety, certain he's about to be arrested at the gate; but Saito has given him bribery instructions, and much to Arthur's relief, the customs agents take one look at Arthur's passport holder, stuffed with bills instead of ID, and wave him through the airport with no problems.

It's Arthur's intention, sleep-deprived and jet-lagged as he is after a nearly 20-hour flight, to head straight to Fort Jesus. He has no idea which of the long line of tour buses outside the airport might be the right one, and the airport attendants are courteous, but less than helpful. After wandering around the airport shuttle station for nearly a quarter of an hour, weird briefcase clutched in his hand, he sinks, exhausted, onto the nearest bench. 

"Excuse me—are you looking for a specific shuttle?"

Arthur looks blearily to his right. An older gentleman is sitting next to him, wearing a brown overcoat that looks far too hot for the humid weather they're in. He looks to be in his sixties, and he's squinting into the sun with a bit of a glare. He's wearing a business suit underneath the coat, and his greying blonde hair is coiffed perfectly. Arthur is sort of grateful for the air of importance and authority he exudes; he's clearly here on business, so if he's offering to help, he must know his way around the region.

Arthur nods. "Can you tell me which tourist shuttle goes to Fort Jesus?"

The man considers, then nods decisively. "That one," he says, pointing to a bus near them. "That's the one you want."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. That's definitely the right bus." 

The man gets up and walks away in the middle of Arthur's attempts to thank him.

People are so friendly here, Arthur thinks.

 

********

 

Two hours later Arthur is fighting with the bus driver in a state of rising panic. "What do you mean, this is the road to Mt. Kilimanjaro?" he says, trying not to shriek. "Kilimanjaro is _hours_  from Mombasa!"

"Look," says the bus driver, "you got on the wrong bus, it happens. If you don't want to see Mt. Kilimanjaro, you can just turn around and go back."

He's right, Arthur thinks. So he got on the wrong bus. No problem.

"I can just get off at the next stop, right? There's a stop soon, right?" The road they're traveling on is an alternating mix of gravel and loose stones and clay, sometimes dangerous from mud and pooling rainwater. It's slow going, and they've spent the whole route traveling through national parks and wildlife refuges rather than between cities. Surely they have to stop at some point.

The driver, exasperated and clearly used to dumb lost Americans, explains patiently that this is the only direct route between Mombasa and the Kilimanjaro National Park. 

"What do you mean, the only direct route?" Arthur asks.

"Ordinarily most shuttles leaving from Mombasa to Kilimanjaro head south through Dar es Salaam first, then west and north," the driver says. "If you had taken one of those buses, you would have stopped sooner. But this route, we only make one stop between there and here. It's an overnight stop in Tsavo, so you can stay at the lodge and go back in the morning."

Arthur tries to process this. Not only had the friendly old gentleman in the overcoat put him on the wrong bus, he'd put Arthur on the  _worst_ wrong bus.

"So what do I do?" he says blankly.

The driver rubs his forehead. "You wait."

After another two hours, the bus lurches to a stop at the halfway point. They've pulled up to a safari lodge in Tsavo National Park, the parking lot opening onto a rich vast mesa where a herd of elephants casually strolls a few hundred yards away. Arthur is instantly comforted by the soft manicured lawns and rows of tour buses awaiting them, and also immediately aware of how _tired_ he is. He books one of the rooms, which are all exorbitantly-priced private luxury suites that open directly onto the safari plain, a vast vista of wildlife; ibex, elephants, zebras, wildebeest, and more, all silhouetted against the blazing sun, traveling over open stretches of savannah beneath burnt sienna skies and red-clay mountains that _The Lion King_ in no way prepared him for.

Even in his agitated state, Arthur has to admit it's the most beautiful place he's ever been.

He calls Mal from one of the immaculate crisp-sheeted beds while watching a zebra and an egret drink from a watering hole.

Mal's phone picks up immediately, but it's not Mal who answers.

"Who is this?" Arthur says in response to the rather reedy male voice that greets him.

"Who is  _this_?"

"I'm Arthur," says Arthur. "Where's Mal?"

"Oh," says the man on the other end of the connection. "You're  _Arthur_. Well, Arthur, I hope you have that package."

"I've got the briefcase," Arthur says. The man snorts. "Who is this? What have you done with Mal?"

"Don't worry, Arthur," says the man. He sounds amused. "Mal's right here. He says he's got the  _briefcase_ ," he says to someone in the room. "He really has no idea, does he?"

Arthur thinks he hears Mal's voice in the background. "Mal!"  He raises his voice. "I'm here, I'm coming, everything's going to be okay—"

"You're in Mombasa?"  The man is back on the phone, alert. 

"I—I was," Arthur hedges.

"Can you bring us the package?"

"I—I was on my way to Fort Jesus," Arthur says. "But I got lost. I—I took the wrong bus."

"Jesus, he took the wrong bus," the man says to whoever's in the room with him. "Where are you now?"

"I'm in Voi," Arthur says. "At a safari lodge in Tsavo."

"You're _where_? What the  _fuck_ —That's over _three hours_ from Mombasa."

"Four by bus," Arthur says.

"How the fuck did you even manage that?"

"Like I said," Arthur says through clenched teeth, "I got lost." 

"Well, Arthur," and now the voice turns menacing. "You have what we need, and we need it in Mombasa, not four _fucking_ hours away, got it? That means you, my city-slicker friend, had better get your ass back here with that _briefcase_ ASAP, because if you don't, your friend here, Mal, is gonna have an awfully hard time returning your phone calls in the future. Understand?"

Beneath his awareness that this is a ludicrously stereotypical kidnapper, Arthur's blood turns cold.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, of course. The plan still stands—I'll call you as soon as I'm in Mombasa and we can arrange a time to do the drop off at Fort Jesus."

"Good," says the voice on the other end, and the call ends before Arthur can ask to speak with Mal.

 

********

 

It's the middle of the afternoon when Arthur collapses into the soft white pillows of his bedroom, not even bothering to change out of his linen travel suit, now hopelessly rumpled. He awakes just before dinnertime, with the soft shades of twilight falling over the savannah. He's grateful for the nap; though he could have slept for hours more, he feels refreshed and rejuvenated. A quick shower and a change into his favorite Ferragamo suit complete the transformation. The Ferragamo is a stylish indigo and it seems perfect for dinner on the savannah; Arthur can almost imagine himself as an extra in a Poirot mystery or a Le Carré spy novel. He locks the briefcase in the suite's safe and heads over to the main hall of the lodge. It's airy and open, with burnished rosewood and high ceilings, and setting sunlight spilling in through the long rows of windows and terraced seating. He orders a vodka martini and settles himself and his laptop at a canvas chair and table overlooking yet another watering hole. 

He has to admit that as vacations go, minus the kidnapping, the illegal overseas travel, and the unexpected detour, this one is seriously cool.

The only thing it's missing currently is the internet.

After a few moments of struggling to get a signal, Arthur realizes the hotel's wi-fi is on a secured connection. He looks around and spots a man sitting a few chairs over. He's nursing what looks like a whisky and soda, broad shoulders nicely filling out a suit of double-breasted khaki; Arthur thinks it might be Armani. 

He clears his throat. The other man looks over at him, disinterested.

"Excuse me," Arthur says politely. "Do you happen to know the wi-fi password?"

The man in khakhi tilts his head, giving Arthur a once-over. "Sure, mate," he says, suddenly quintessentially British, "but we've had flooding over the last few days, which tends to knock out service to these parts. The Voi, she doesn't go down quietly, but when she does..." he chuckles.

Arthur tamps down his impatience.

"Okay," he responds, "but can you at least give me the password so I can try for myself?"

The man hums. "You don't take setbacks well, do you?" he says, and Arthur sends him a blatant eyeroll. Great, now he's being negged and hit on all in one breath.

"Never mind," he says coldly, and stands to go ask the concierge.

"Why don't I flip you for it," says the man in the khaki suit. 

Arthur turns. The man is holding out a poker chip.

"Heads, I give you the password and leave you alone; tails, you let me buy you another martini."

The man is twirling the poker chip between his thumb and forefinger with a dexterity that Arthur can't help being caught by. His fingers are long and agile, and Arthur's gaze involuntarily sweeps over the body they're attached to. He really is impeccably dressed—there's even a patterned fuchsia paisley pocket liner in his suit jacket. He's got the casual slouch of someone perfectly at home in his environment, but he's close-shaven and tidy, and his clothes seem new, not well-worn in. His shoes are polished to perfection, not a scuff on them. Arthur supposes he must be wealthy, if he's traveling by himself in a place like this, in brand-new Armani, no less. He looks again at his face. 

Well. He's really far more attractive than Arthur realized at first glance. Insanely attractive, even.

Arthur has principles, and being blatantly hit up by louche ex-pats in safari lodges is not part of his life plan. But this  _is_ the first non-work-related conversation he's had with an attractive man in months, and he can hear Ariadne's voice in his head urging him to live a little.

Fine.

"Tails, you give me the password  _and_ buy me the drink," he says.

The man shoots him a delighted grin full of crooked teeth. They make him roguish, disreputable. Arthur wishes he hadn't noticed.

"Excellent," the man says. 

"Wait," Arthur interrupts before he can flip the chip. "It's a poker chip, which side is which?"

The man shrugs elegantly. "Let's say casino side is heads."

"And how do I know it's not, I don't know, fake or loaded or something?" Arthur asks. He'd written a character who used a loaded die once; he figures it's a fair enough question.

The man arches an eyebrow and looks up at him. "You don't," he says. His voice is a baritone purr. Arthur wishes he hadn't noticed that either. "But you win either way."

And Arthur has to admit that's fair.

The chip toss comes up tails, and Arthur supposes he's okay with it.  

"I promise I'm excellent company," the man says. He moves to Arthur's table and motions for the waiter. 

"Hmm," Arthur says. "Does excellent company have a name?"

"Oh, yes, several," says the man. Arthur narrows his eyes. "Why don't you call me Jack," the man says.

"Fine." Arthur supposes he looks like a Jack. "Union Jack it is."

"God save the queen," the man says, toasting him with his whisky and soda. The waiter appears, and Arthur orders his second vodka martini.

"I have to say, I had you pegged as more of a Manhattan type," his companion says. Arthur can't help but put "Jack" in quotes mentally. He should probably be more alarmed by that than he is, but he's having a hard time keeping his guard up. The more he looks at "Jack" the handsomer he gets; the softer and keener and greener his eyes become; and wow, Arthur probably shouldn't have downed his first drink quite so rapidly. 

"The island?" he asks.

"The drink." His companion takes a surprisingly delicate sip of his whisky and soda. "Though people who drink Manhattans usually live there, or want to. So, what? A gimlet when you want to kick back? Glenlivet for business? Jack and coke for bottoming-out?" His brow furrows impressively. "But I'm guessing a bloke like you doesn't bottom-out. You just add extra layers and more buttons."

Arthur sends him a wry smile. "You're not wrong," he says. "Maybe off in some of the particulars, but I'll allow it."

"And yet here you are, as far away from Manhattan and extra layers as you can get."

Arthur shrugs. "Actually, I like to kick back with fruity drinks and margaritas, and Kenyan safaris."

Probably-not-Jack grins at him. "Oh, you are a romantic one," he says. "I don't believe it for a second, though."

"Why?"

His companion hesitates for a moment. Then he says, "Okay, fine, I'll bite."

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table in the most ungainly way. It makes the fitted stretch of his suit across his wide shoulders even more apparent. Arthur swallows and manages at the last moment not to lick his suddenly-dry lips.

"Your hands are manicured and soft, which says you've got quite a bit of disposable income," says not-Jack, giving him a penetrating once-over, "and you take great care—obviously—with your appearance. But your nails are trimmed short, which says you're on computers a lot. But," he adds appreciatively, "No one gets an ass like that sitting around an office all day, so I'm guessing salaryman is right out."

Arthur flushes. The man catches this and shoots him a smile. It's warm with a touch of sympathy. 

"And if something like that can make you blush," he says, "I'm guessing you're a hopeless romantic. Not the type to come on safari without a companion unless there was a good reason."

"Hopeful," says Arthur, charmed in spite of himself. "Hopeful romantic."

Not-Jack leans in. "Here's to hopeful romantics," he says, toasting Arthur with his drink. "Where was I? Oh, yes. You've got circles under your eyes, so you're jet-lagged and not used to the long overseas flight. If you spent a lot of time out of doors you'd be ruddier, rosy-cheeked apart from letting me make you blush. And you were far more interested in your laptop than the scenic vistas when you came into the dining room. And then there's your shoes, not a scuff or a speck of dirt on them. That says you weren't expecting to spend a lot of your time on murram roads. I'm guessing something had to have brought you here, out of your normal routine. How am I doing?"

Arthur blinks.

"So what is it?" Not-Jack asks. "What brought you here?"

Arthur hesitates. "I think you know quite enough about me already," he says after a moment. His companion shrugs but doesn't look displeased. Arthur likes that about him. "Why don't you tell me what brought _you_ here instead?" 

Not-Jack leans back in his chair and launches into a long and obviously fake story about working his way across the Mediterranean as a deejay for a cruise ship nightclub, then deciding to work his way across Northern and Eastern Africa for kicks. By the time he's telling Arthur about getting drafted into an expedition to ferret out poachers in Chad, Arthur has lost track of which parts of the tale are merely highly embellished and which parts are pure fabrication; but the second martini is going down even more quickly than the first, and his face keeps getting softer and smoother with every sip. It's almost a baby face, incongruously smooth in contrast to the crow's feet that appear when he smiles. It's hard to get a read on how old he is, though Arthur suspects they're roughly the same age. Arthur can't stop staring at his plush lower lip, how pink and velvety it is, how good it would feel between Arthur's— 

"Sorry, I didn't catch—what?"  He stutters a bit, aware he's just lost the thread of conversation.

Not-Jack smiles at him. "You should probably eat something, mate," he says. "You wouldn't want all that vodka to go to your head."

"I wouldn't?" Arthur asks.

He gazes across the table, and Jack's returning stare turns heated and dark. "On second thought," he says, "why don't I get the check, hmm?"

 

********

Arthur is in heaven. Arthur hasn't gotten laid in a very long time, granted, but he hasn't forgotten how good it feels to be held by the kind of man who knows how to hold you. And Jack, whoever the fuck he is, knows exactly how to press Arthur against the door of his suite and grind his cock against Arthur's like he means it, his hips bracketing Arthur's, body hemming him in while still holding himself apart, leaning in without actually letting his weight crush him. Arthur's already intensely aware this isn't going to be the typical groping, awkward one-night stand. He lets out a satisfied sigh and gives into the need to press himself against not-Jack's chest. 

"Oh, you are eager," the man murmurs, leaning in to slide his mouth over the arch of Arthur's throat. Arthur shivers appreciatively and fumbles with bits of clothing in an effort to show his appreciation. "Don't do this often?" Not-Jack asks. "Or am i just lucky?"

Arthur laughs. "You think you're lucky now," he says, "Just wait a few minutes." Not-Jack looks startled and then laughs, a loud, rich sound, and Arthur flushes again and wonders how Mal will react if he ever tells her he got laid while trying to bring her briefcase to her mid-kidnapping. The thought of how ludicrous it is that he's here, in this position, while his sister is being kidnapped, sinks in suddenly, and he casts a glance over at the safe just to make sure it's still locked. 

"Something on your mind?" Not-Jack murmurs. "Should I put you on your knees and give you something to distract you?"

Arthur looks back at him, then chances a glance down at his companion's cock, snaking long and thick from the gap in his open trousers.

"Yes, please," he breathes. Lila Bordeaux is going to have so much inspiration for  _Safari_   _Bride_ , he thinks, and stifles an inappropriate giggle.

"Jesus, look at you," says Not-Jack. "I really have gotten lucky."

Impulsively, Arthur leans in and kisses him, all warmth and whisky and wet heat. Jack moans and immediately opens up, kissing him the way one-night stands aren't supposed to kiss, like he just doesn't give a fuck and wants the memory to stay with him. A flash of regret passes through Arthur, and he pulls away long enough to add guiltily, "Hey, just so we're clear, I have to be on the earliest shuttle back to Mombasa in the morning."

Not-Jack smiles, with a faint trace of the same wry regret Arthur is feeling. "Not to worry, darling," he says, as he reels Arthur back in. "I'll be gone long before then."

 

********

 

And he is.

Arthur nearly sleeps through his alarm, still pleasantly drunk on that floaty, well-fucked feeling, before the memory of what awaits him in Mombasa launches him out of bed. He showers and dresses in record time, mildly impressed at how little trace Jack has left of himself. It's not until he reaches for his wallet and watch that he realizes: they're both missing.

His jaw drops. He glances over to the safe. The door is wide open. He lunges for it. Inside there's a Post-it note with a large loopy smiley face. _So sorry it had to end this way_ , it reads.  _You were lovely. - Jack_

"No," Arthur says, thoughts blanking out. Ludicrously, he sweeps the empty safe as if he might have missed something obvious, but it's useless.

The metal briefcase — his only chance to save Mal from whatever fate awaits her in Mombasa — is gone. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Guys google docs says I outlined this entire fic in 2011, that is how long i've been putting off writing this. it had to happen eventually, the call of this crossover was too strong for me to deny. Thanks to Oceaxe for cheering me on!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] Hopeful Romantics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534284) by [justaddgigi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaddgigi/pseuds/justaddgigi)




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